by Liz Meldon
Yet somehow giving one to Dean felt more—intimate?
I swirled my tongue around the head, rather enjoying the way his body jerked at the movement, and then plunged back down again, taking him as far as I could, until my mouth met my fist.
“Fuck, Belle,” he hissed, and instinctively I shot up, worried I’d done something wrong, grazed him with my teeth, maybe? I bit my lower lip, brow creased with worry; I’d been trying so hard not to—
Without a word, our eyes locked, and Dean steered my head back to him, thrusting between my lips with a soft growl, his hand tightening around my ponytail. A little squeal escaped me as he filled my mouth, nudging the back of my throat before retreating.
“Hands behind your back,” he ordered gruffly, and I scrambled to comply, grasping each wrist for good measure. Wet heat greeted me as soon as I drew my knees closer together, my slit swollen and sensitive. A blush blossomed across my cheeks, and, with Dean’s cock in my mouth and his hand on my ponytail, I couldn’t exactly turn away to hide it. Still, as his hand slid down and grasped my throat, lifting my chin just a little, something in the way he studied me said he liked the blush—a lot. “Good girl.”
I exhaled sharply, shocked at how two insignificant words, words I’d heard time and time again in other scenes, could have such a profoundly arousing effect on me now. My pussy clenched at the thought, at the steely rumble of his voice, at the heat in his eyes as he started to thrust slowly in my mouth. I held my wrists tighter, trying to relax my jaw and take as much of him as I could—hoping this had done the trick, that he was no longer stuck in the pit of fear that I was all too familiar with.
He kept me like that for—god knows how long. On my knees, at his feet. Hands behind my back. Lazily fucking my face as he watched me with a dark, hooded look I’d see in my dreams tonight.
Finally, just as my knees started to scream, he raised me up by my ponytail, then guided me toward him with the hand on my throat. Then, rather than pumping his cock between my lips, he used my mouth instead, forcing my head up and down. I tried to just breathe through it, but the hand on my windpipe made that increasingly difficult, as did the pace. My eyes watered. I choked on him—more than once. My hands came loose behind my back, bracing myself on the leather seat, and I pretended not to hear his chastising tsk over the symphony of our racing, staggered breaths.
I needed to brace myself, prop myself up, or I might just—
Well, pull away. That was what I wanted to do. Pull back, catch my breath, wipe the tears out of my eyes.
Slip a hand between my thighs.
But Dean’s grip was as merciless as his pace, his balls soon slapping against my chin as he thrust up to meet me, half out of the chair, until he finally spilled himself down my throat. I struggled to swallow the sudden influx of cum—struggled, but damn it, I did it. Not a drop slipped past my lips.
With a shaky breath, Dean settled back in his seat and released my ponytail. As I eased away, his cock falling from my mouth to his lap, still semi-erect, his hand slid up my throat and cupped my chin. Gently. Affectionately, maybe. I couldn’t help but smile when his thumb stroked my jaw.
“Do you feel better?” I asked, my voice thick—wet, even. I swallowed again, the taste of him lingering, my body aching from the roughest, most enjoyable oral I’d ever given. Dean grinned down at me, his gaze still dark and lusty, but satisfied, too.
“Yes, much better,” he told me with a chuckle, then wiped a thumb under my eyes, brushing the dampness away.
Neither of us seemed to feel the need to bring up why he’d been so tense—why I’d dropped to my knees in the first place. Which was just fine by me. Dean wasn’t any less of a Dominant in my eyes because flying made him a bit anxious; all I’d seen was that my Dom had needed a distraction.
He’d needed me.
“Thank you, Belle.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” My eyes fluttered closed when he leaned down, hand tightening on my chin, and kissed my cheek. Surprisingly, I found myself leaning in to the touch, to the warmth of his lips against my skin—and then felt oddly bereft when it disappeared.
Bereft and wildly turned on, mind you. I clenched, my sex still wet and swollen, desperate for some release.
But this wasn’t about me.
So, when Dean helped me up, gently grasping me by the elbows, I went without a fuss, without so much as a pout. He steadied me when the plane rocked, and this time his entire being didn’t tense. Beyond the slight twitch in his cheek, he seemed perfectly fine with the shuddering around us. Pride swelled within me, but I shoved it back down.
You just gave him a blowjob. You aren’t winning the Nobel Peace Prize here.
“Bathroom is at the back,” he murmured, offering another dimpled smile before releasing me. “Left door. Right is the bedroom, if you need it.”
I nodded, and, on wobbly legs, made my way through the luxury liner to the sprawling bathroom.
Only to collapse against the locked door once I was inside, my mind racing, my cheeks burning, and my heart suddenly thundering.
“Belle, put your book down.”
I dog-eared the page I was on, my heart skipping a beat, and closed Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein—a book that was kind of just okay, but I’d thought might make me look a little cultured when Dean saw the cover. My real passion—smutty romance—was currently tucked away in my purse on my e-reader, and I had every intention of plowing through the dozens of unread books awaiting me on my off days.
Setting the book on the extended table now pulled out between our seats, I watched as Dean approached from the rear of the jet. About two hours into the flight, his shift in demeanor was palpable. We hadn’t seen the pilots since they first welcomed us aboard, and despite the fact that I had just given my first client blow job, the atmosphere in the cabin had been relaxed. Easy. Light—after I’d calmed down in the bathroom, of course, my senses on fire after that blowjob. Dean had been working on his laptop this whole time while I trudged through Shelley’s classic. We’d munched on a bag of salty chips together, and I hoped we’d eat something proper once we landed; I’d been so nervous this morning that I barely got my breakfast down, lunch had been out of the question, and now, hours later, my stomach was not pleased with my decisions.
When I started to stand, Dean shook his head. So, back down I went, watching, waiting, until he strolled right up to my chair and knelt beside it, a large velvet box in hand.
I frowned, trying not to stare, but I’d always been the curious sort. What kind of jewelry could fit in there? Too big for a ring. Too wide for a bracelet. Maybe a necklace and earrings set?
“As you might recall, I had something planned for the flight,” Dean started, holding the box out to me.
“I…do,” I managed when I realized he wanted a response. While some of our activities had been planned in intimate detail, not everything had been outlined so vividly.
And I still wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing just yet.
“Now, this is a game where there are no losers,” he told me, his tone firm yet friendly, “and I suppose no winners, either.”
“How can it be a game then?” I asked, quickly adding “sir” when he arched a brow at me. Grinning, Dean popped the lid up.
“Well, because games are fun. I think this will be fun, too.”
I swallowed thickly at the sight of the device inside.
“Do you know what this is, Belle?”
“It’s…” Damn it. I really needed to get a handle on all this blushing. Honestly, what kind of escort got so rattled over a sex toy? Not a very good one, probably. “It looks like a…remote-controlled vibrator, maybe?”
“Good. Yes, that’s precisely what it is.” Dean set the box on my armrest, then removed the little triangular remote from its indent in the plush velvet fabric. “This controls the speed of the vibrator.”
He then picked up the pink silicone oval and placed it in my hand. A simple click of the button had it vibrating;
I jumped, then let out a slightly embarrassed giggle when I felt him eyeing me.
“There are three speeds,” he explained, cycling through each one. The third had the vibrator whirring angrily as it danced around my palm. I made a face. Wow. Kind of an aggressive setting.
“Now, you’ll wear that,” Dean told me—informed me, ordered me, “and I’ll have the remote.”
“And what’s the game?”
“The game is seeing how long you can go without coming,” he purred, switching the vibrator off as I swallowed hard. His grin turned downright sinful as he added, “I estimate five minutes, but perhaps you’ll prove me wrong.”
Oh god. I had no idea how long I’d last, honestly. At home, there was a single vibrator in my arsenal of sex supplies—which, granted, was pretty sad for an escort—and I rarely ever used it. My fingers almost always did the trick; no need for anything fancy.
Still—five minutes? Maybe if I wasn’t trying, but I fully intended to put effort into this, if only to surprise him.
“I see your five minutes, sir,” I said, lifting my chin as my hand closed around the bullet vibrator, no longer or wider than Dean’s thumb, “and raise you to eight.”
“Betting’s a dangerous game, Belle.” He stood, smoothing a hand down the front of his suit. “I’m not sure you’re ready for the consequences should you lose.”
My core clenched deliciously at his thinly veiled threat.
“Maybe not, but I still think—eight minutes,” I said with a determined nod.
“Very well then. Off you go. There’s lubricant in the bathroom if you need it.”
Yeah. Definitely wasn’t going to need any additional lubrication. As I stood, my pent-up arousal from earlier came flooding back, and I slipped by him with a murmured thanks. Halfway down the cabin, he added another stipulation.
“Leave your stockings in there,” Dean remarked, a hand on the back of my chair as he watched me, all the gentle warmth gone from his expression, ramped up a thousand notches to granite and fire instead. “Panties will stay on.”
I licked my lips, pulse thumping between my ears, then nodded hastily. “Yes, sir.”
Sensing time was of the essence, I hurried to the bathroom at the back of the jet, locking myself in with a deep exhale. So it begins. The blowjob hadn’t been planned, but I’d known he wanted to do something on the plane—and this was it. I stared at the small pink vibrator sitting innocently in my palm.
I could do this.
I’d signed up to do this.
I was getting paid a lot of money to do this.
Still, as I set the vibrator on the counter and got to work peeling off my boots and stockings, I couldn’t help but think foot fetish clients were a lot less work.
Less fun, too.
As a tentative excitement coursed through me, I popped a foot up on the closed toilet and grabbed the vibrator. True to Dean’s word, there was a little bottle of water-based lubricant waiting for me, still in its plastic wrapper. While I appreciated the gesture, his thought of my comfort in all this, I didn’t need it. Not if the dampness of my panties had anything to say about it. Sure, most of it was from before, but as I slipped a finger between my folds, just to check, I found myself wet already.
Something about Dean Donahue—it was like turning on a tap. Those gorgeous eyes, straddling the line between green and grey. That sinful mouth, ordering me about like he owned me. And that accent—American, but getting more English by the second. The more Dom he became, the brighter his accent shone.
Yum.
My pussy protested the intrusion, but in a pleasant sort of way, tightening around the vibrator, clinging to it, a little bolt of pleasure pulsing through me. Once I had it in, I pulled my panties back on, but was sure to leave the stockings and boots behind. Biting the insides of my cheeks, I wandered over to the spotless mirror, noting the rosy colour in my cheeks, the unkempt flyaways sticking out around my head. I’d fixed my ponytail and bow earlier, but I had a feeling they’d get ruined again before the day was over.
The thought had a chill racing down my spine.
How easy it would have been to slip a hand between my thighs now and take the edge off. Maybe then I’d be able to prove him wrong—last ten whole minutes instead of his measly five.
I pursed my lips and sighed. No. The house rules were very clear when it came to my pleasure: orgasms required permission, nor could I indulge in any solo time for the next two months either.
Besides, while I might have been new at this whole submissive thing, I was determined to follow the rules—to be a good sub.
You can do it. I gave my reflection a high five, careful not to leave a handprint on the mirror, then left the bathroom after washing my hands, pussy wet as ever, and tried to ignore the pleasurable tingles I felt with every awkward, slightly stilted step. While only slightly bigger than a large tampon, the vibrator wasn’t exactly made of cottony fabric, was it? The silicon had some give to it, but not enough to make walking comfortable.
Dean’s eyes stalked me as I half waddled back to my seat, and when I hesitated, he nodded down to it. Right. Down I went, settling into the cushy leather seat with some difficulty, my bare legs prickling as I smoothed my skirt to cover my butt.
“Back to reading,” Dean said when I looked at him curiously, awaiting my next instruction. Swallowing hard, I grabbed Shelley’s Frankenstein again and opened to my dog-eared page. How was I supposed to concentrate on this now when I was just sitting here, waiting for the storm to hit?
I tried. I really did. Brows knitted, I read every word, my adrenaline spiking each time Dean shifted across the table. At one point, he pulled out his laptop again and started clacking around, as if going back to work. Huffing, I flipped the page louder than necessary—apparently, I wasn’t one for being teased. Who knew?
“Now, remember, Belle,” Dean said, his voice cracking through my gathering brain-fog. “You don’t need to ask permission to come. Not this time.”
“Yes, sir.” A startled little squeak flew out of me when the vibrations started. While it was clearly on the lowest setting, I sat up straighter, my cheeks burning all the same. It felt good. Too good. I bit my lower lip, then stared pointedly at the page I’d been on, not taking in a single word. The low vibrations shot straight to my clit, and I uncrossed my legs to lessen the tension, the pressure—only the new position shifted the little bullet inside me so that it rumbled contentedly against my G-spot now.
Oh, this—might be harder than I’d anticipated.
I glanced tentatively at Dean, hoping he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t read all the thoughts that no doubt had flashed openly across my face. While I should have schooled my features, played it cool, I couldn’t. Not with him studying me through heavy-lidded eyes, jaw set, remote controller held loosely in his left hand, thumb on the button.
Okay. Okay. You can do this. Just concentrate on Frankenstein’s monster—my, isn’t he doing an awful lot of complaining about the human race—
“Ah!” I jolted upright again when Dean increased the vibrations, that click of the button deafening in the suddenly too-quiet cabin. My paperback’s pages creased under my death grip, and I tried to lean nonchalantly to the side to get a look at Dean’s watch, but I couldn’t find the right angle. Letting out a shaky breath, I sat back in my seat. It must have been, what, four minutes by now? Nearly there. Just needed to hold out a little while longer—
“You’re at two minutes, Belle,” Dean said without looking up from his laptop, “just.”
Damn it. “Oh. Right. Well, good.”
“How are you doing?”
“F-fine,” I told him, wincing at my stutter. Gaze still fixed on his sleek, thin laptop, Dean smirked.
“Hmm. So I can see.”
The clack of his fingers to light grey keys resumed seconds later, and I tipped my head back. Honestly, trying not to come somehow made all this worse. Actually, forcing myself to slog through this boring book didn’t help either. If only I
had my romances… I considered it for a moment, then shook my head. No. Romances would make this ten times harder; none of the books I read were exactly fit for public consumption. A bit risqué. A bit titillating.
Still, I had to try. Jaw clenched, I picked up my book determinedly and flipped through the pages to find where I’d left off on. Only nothing looked familiar. I couldn’t even remember what had been happening in the scene before Dean upped the speed of this terribly wonderful device inside me. Something about Victor…doing something… Ugh, high school me had never been very good at English class; all I’d wanted to read, even back then, were my romances.
I eventually settled on a page—but only ended up staring at it, the words bleeding together as the vibrations continued their relentless torture, my body fought the urge to break, to shatter into a million pleasurable pieces. I sang the alphabet, itemized all the things in my luggage, and even tried to break down how much I’d be earning over the next two months to the second.
Nothing helped.
An eternity later, when the pleasurable licks of my impending orgasm swept across my hands, my chest, my nipples pebbled beneath my bra and cardigan—Dean upped the speed. I cried out, unable to stop myself, and tossed that damn book on the floor. No point in pretending anymore. Eyes shut, I gripped the armrests, doing a little white-knuckling of my own as my hips started to shake. This was torture. Sheer, unadulterated torture.
I fought so hard, my entire body gritted with the effort.
Clenching only made things worse. It heightened each sensation—emphasized the restrictiveness of my clothing, the sensitivity of my skin. If I dared relax now, however, I’d be done for. I’d plummet over the edge, come undone right in front of him, and I couldn’t do that. Not yet. I still had more fight in me.
“Belle.” My eyes snapped open to a vacant seat across the table. Work abandoned, Dean now occupied the sprawling white couch to my right. He sat there, one arm stretched out across the back, his legs wide apart and his gaze stormy. “Come here.”
